Extending Passing Period
by Veterization
Summary: Peter/Stiles PWP oneshot. Stiles needs a distraction from economics class. Peter is there to provide that distraction.


_Disclaimer: _I do not own Teen Wolf.

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_Stiles, **1:32**: I swear the clock's been tampered with because it moves one minute about every three years_

_Stiles, **1:34**: when the hell am I going to use thermoeconomics in my daily life_

_Stiles, **1:35**: if you're ignoring me to get me to pay attention in class I don't appreciate your sudden morals_

Stiles taps out his last message with a determined stubbornness that will only be quelled with Peter acknowledging his existence, his thumbs pushing his phone between his legs when Finstock swivels around from the board. He remembers economics being more exciting than this last year, but that might have been because he never actually paid attention then either, too busy whispering over his desk in Scott's direction about controlling himself before he shifts on the lacrosse field. It was definitely a simpler time, back when economics wasn't a cousin of physics and he had time to do his reading every night. Not that he would.

"…which means that we can whittle this down to a nice little formula, which, according to your book, is…" Finstock searches the room for a soul with sleepy eyes and impatient feet tapping away on the floor, and Stiles promptly perks up. If this class has taught him anything, it's that Finstock hates picking on those who look like they have the right answers. "Greenberg! Do you know the equation?"

Stiles deflates back into his curled slump, the danger of having to participate passing. His day's been long, too long for any average body to handle, and it doesn't help that there's a steady pile of homework building up in his backpack that he'll have to try valiantly to ignore this evening while instead immersing himself in reruns of_ The First 48 _with his dad.

His phone buzzes against his thigh a moment later, a soft vibration that tickles his leg as he discreetly pulls his phone out to rest in his lap. Finstock is busy yelling at Greenberg to notice Stiles' complete lack of rule following, and Stiles opens his messages.

_Peter, **1:39**: it'd be just horrible of me to pull away youthful minds from education, don't you think_

_Stiles, **1:40**: a little too late for that_

_Peter, **1:39**: haven't a clue what you mean_

_Stiles, **1:40**: maybe this will ring a bell, you giving me a blowjob while I tried to work on my English essay two days ago_

_Peter, **1:41:**: you're right. maybe I will distract you._

Finstock is back up at the board, scribbling numbers that might as well be Greek letters to Stiles' disinterested eyes. At this point, Stiles can't help but feel like all the werewolves have been bad for him, like nothing is exciting enough for his brain to focus on anymore unless it involves looking for patterns in a string of murders, scheming bank break-ins, or planning traps for various creatures of the night. The blackboard in front of him featuring none of the above holds little of his brain captive. His phone buzzes again, and Stiles pulls it out.

_Peter, **1:42**: when I see you again I'm going to bite down on your chest right below your shirt so if it slips just a little bit everybody can see my teeth marks_

Stiles almost drops his phone, his fingers instantaneously slippery as he rereads the words. He wants to damn Peter's possessive streak, but he should really be damning himself for being so easily affected by it. Something like desire stirs in his midsection and Stiles swiftly drops his book in his lap so his classmates don't get a free peepshow at his tented pants. God, Peter knows exactly how easy it is for him to rile Stiles up and is probably doubled over in laughter at the idea of him horny in the middle of class. Damn him. His phone buzzes yet again.

_Peter, **1:44**: I'd leave the same marks down your stomach and your thighs, but nobody would see those. or maybe I'd just use my tongue and save you the shame of showing off my marks in the locker room_.

Stiles readjusts the spine of his economics textbook over his crotch. He'd believe that Finstock's shrill voice would kill any attempts of his dick to transform into a boner, but apparently Peter's messages are overwhelming enough to block out Finstock firing quiz questions at them like bullets. He'd say this is unfair play, but then again, he was the one who asked to be distracted. He rubs his thumb over his phone, watching the dots of Peter typing pop up. Damn him again, because Stiles is getting hard just waiting for his words.

_Peter, **1:45**: I'd love to lick you open before I fuck you up against a wall and listen to how your mouth tries and fails to keep in all your whimpers_

_Stiles, **1:45**: god you know I'm in class right_

_Peter, **1:45**: that's why this is so fun_

The three tiny circles show up again, and Stiles swallows on a dry tongue. Peter has a filthy mouth, the kind that would have to be bleeped out of family movies and should have a warning glued onto his lower lip reading rated R for sheer dirtiness, and Stiles' entire body turns into a musical number conducted by Peter's words when he starts whipping out his filthiest sentiments. He goes to tap out something in return—either a chastisement for his shameless teasing or a message just as explicit to keep the ball afloat and the game going—and that's when a hand smacks down on his desk loudly enough to shock him out of his chair.

"Stilinski!" Finstock is yelling, eyebrows pulled together and eyes wide as he fixes Stiles with the impatiently expectant glare of a teacher who's seen one too many phones discreetly pulled out under desks. "Would you like to share your urgent conversation you just had to send out with the class, or would you like me to?"

He holds out his hand, like he's fully intending on grabbing Stiles' phone and reading aloud the texts that, if verbalized, would have his grandmother writhing in her grave in unhindered shame. Stiles shoves his phone into his pocket like he's hiding stolen loot in front of policemen eyes. Stiles does what he does best and fumbles for words that gets him off the hook, or at the very least, manage to distract Finstock long enough to make him realize that attempting to reason with Stiles is nothing but a waste of class time.

"My family pet died. It was gruesome. I had no idea. My dad wanted me to know right away."

Finstock looks dreadfully unamused.

"You do realize that I would have you cleaning gum off of desks until you're sixty if some states wouldn't view it as a blatant example of child labor, don't you?"

"I do, coach," Stiles says with a grin that, according to some biased sources, is a major contributor to global warming. It seems to do its magic sufficiently on Finstock, who pulls back from his desk with one last glower of warning before returning to the head of the classroom. The phone in his pocket buzzes, and this time, Stiles has the good judgment not to check it. His erection doesn't budge, though, and he doesn't know if should blame teenage hormones or Peter for that.

The bell rings a moment later, the saving grace that Stiles' luck doesn't normally grant him, and Stiles shoots up out of his desk before Scott can trail after him asking him what his grade on the pop quiz was, eager to get the fuck out of there if only to get the memory of Finstock nearly reading aloud his phone's history of increasingly filthy texts with Peter out of his brain. It needs to be _washed _out.

Out in the hallway, however, there isn't exactly an improvement awaiting him.

Amid the students opening lockers and the urgent freshmen running across the hall to make it to gym in time, there's Peter, seemingly innocuous and incongruous as ever as the only grown man in the vicinity who finds it appropriate to lean against Stiles' locker like he identified it as his through a well-trained nose alone and is currently awaiting him to appear so he can dump his econ textbook and slouch his way to math class. Stiles is a little amazed that he made it here so quickly, if he's not already occupied being amazed at his audacity to walk brazenly through a high school like he belongs there.

"What the fuck are you doing here? Taking a page out of Derek's book and stalking school grounds?" Stiles grits out the moment he reaches his locker. Peter smirks, not the least bit insulted by his questions, and pulls his locker open for Stiles to dump his bag into. It's a little unnerving that Peter knows intrinsically that Stiles never bothers to actually close his locker, ajar just enough that he doesn't have to go through the task of fiddling with the lock each time he drops off another monstrously heavy book, but he focuses his attention on other equally unnerving things at the moment, like Peter's appearance in his school in general.

"Pretty sure Derek stole that move from me." Peter says around a grin. Students passing by are giving them glances, just as Stiles expected, and Stiles considers pushing him into the nearest empty classroom just to find out what he wants and send him on his merry way. Unless somebody's dying, Stiles isn't sure he has time for this.

"That really isn't something to be proud of, you big pedophile," he says, pushing his backpack into his locker. Peter promptly closes it for him. "Why the hell are you here?"

Peter doesn't seem phased by Stiles' less than impressed opinion regarding his presence in a high school in the middle of the afternoon, nor does he seem affected by his questions, reaching out to grab his wrist and pull him down the hall. There's kids Stiles knows here, kids watching him being tugged past the lockers by a grown man like he's about to bodily yanked into the principal's office by a figure of authority, and Stiles tries to jerk his wrist back. Peter doesn't let go.

"Where are we going?" Stiles asks, hurrying alongside him as students slide past them. Peter's going against the grain of the hallway, pushing past anybody threatening to walk smack into their chests and pointing to the bathroom door swinging open as kid from Stiles' homeroom wanders out.

"You said you needed a distraction," Peter says, like it's obvious. He pulls him inside the restroom and Stiles finally succeeds in wrenching his wrist free of his grip. "_I'm_ a distraction."

"You almost killed me, I hope you know. Killed of humiliation by his dirty-talking boyfriend because Finstock was _this _close to reading my texts aloud to the class."

"What are you so angry about?" Peter is saying, eyebrows furrowed together like the idea of Stiles finding his erotic text messages upsetting in any way is a bizarre concept to grasp. He pushes Stiles against the sink after scanning the bathroom for wayward students wasting time before class, right up against the paper towel dispenser, and leans in to lave his tongue up his neck. Stiles tries his best to resist.

"Are you out of your mind?" Peter shoots him another look, like by now he's just asking stupid questions, and Stiles tries again. "More than usual? Anybody could walk in!"

"Isn't that half the fun?" Peter murmurs, and suddenly there's a hand palming Stiles' crotch, just a few fleeting touches of his hand that do wonders resurrecting Stiles' wilted erection. He steps closer until their chests are flush together and ducks his nose into Stiles' neck, inhaling the arousal on his skin and licking it all up with a warm tongue that drags up his jugular.

Stiles looks over his shoulder, the door in plain sight. He can still hear the laughter, the slamming of lockers and the thump of footsteps pattering down the hallway, and all it would take is one dude in need of a piss before chemistry and he'd get a show he never signed up for. Unfortunately, all of those concerns are drowning out in favor of the loud pump of his own blood thrumming through his ears. His dick is already straining for Peter's hands to grope and stroke and touch him again, even though his eyes are trained on the door like a hawk waiting for a fish's scales to flit into view from the surface of a lake.

"Stop it," Peter growls, and squeezes his ass to push the tension from his body. He pushes him hard against the towel dispenser until it digs into the small of his back, pulling back from his neck to block his view and stare him down. "You're so tense."

"Wonder why," Stiles snipes, cocking his eyebrows over to where the door sits, innocent for now. Peter rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles' dick through his pants, kneading his half-hard length and stealing his mouth in a kiss that does wonders in diverting his attention away from the door. His mouth is like a drug, irresistible and downright illegal in how it does its work, and Stiles lets himself melt into it for a moment. Or two.

Peter's tongue is a drug, Stiles thinks, truly a drug, because Stiles finds himself chasing it into his mouth the second he retreats, replacing his tongue with his teeth and nipping ruthlessly on his lower lip until blood comes to the surface. He loves seeing Stiles like this, disheveled and debauched thanks to his own doing, and Stiles arches into his touch as his fingers start hitching up his sweatshirt.

"Ouch," Stiles mumbles into his mouth as the dispenser starts indenting his backside. He pushes against Peter's chest, a warm block of heat in his way, and attempts to wriggle himself free. "_Stall_."

Peter doesn't need any more instruction, even if he does roll his eyes at Stiles' paranoia. Stiles loves the idea of undressing right now, undressing Peter as well just as fast and letting Peter lick his way from his thigh to his neck, but he's pretty sure that all it would take is one foot in the door, one mortified gasp, and one churn of the rumor mill for his father to chop him into three pieces and his life to be over. Peter pushes him into the nearest stall, thankfully free of waterlogged clumps of toilet paper on the tiles as Stiles stumbles in backward, and continues their kiss just as the bell rings.

"Don't even think about it," Peter mutters on his mouth as the sound reverberates through the bathroom. He's already shucking Stiles' pants down his legs and clawing at his jacket, shoving it off his shoulders with the ferocity of a man who doesn't operate on the schedule of a passing period. Stiles shakes his head and laughs, because there's no way he's thinking of sprinting to math right now even if his teacher floated down into the stall and offered him a million dollars to do so. What can he say, he's a teenager.

"Wasn't thinking," Stiles says, and it's true. Peter does that to him. He kisses him and touches him and just looks at him in ways that Stiles can literally feel lower his IQ and turns him into clay, clay that doesn't think or worry or do much else but hang on for the ride and beg.

His shirt goes next as Peter breaks their kiss, dropping it onto the floor and leaving Stiles shirtless with his pants pooled around his ankles and his boxers draped over his hips. Peter leans in to bite at his ear and murmur, "Lose the pants. Lose the boxers. Now."

Stiles does it, even if he doesn't like taking orders. There's something about Peter when he's nothing but commands and sex and lust, demanding Stiles to bend to his will. Maybe it's because Stiles knows he's about to be sexed up so well that it could last him until winter. Maybe it's because Stiles does the same thing to Peter when he pleases. He kicks his pants and boxers over into the same corner as his tops, not bothering to wonder how grimy the floor is or how he's naked in the social studies hallway bathroom with Peter looming over him kissing lines down of wet kisses down his neck. Best not to think too hard.

"You gonna touch me?" Stiles purrs, desperate for the claiming touches of firm palms and stroking fingers, and Peter pushes him down onto the toilet before reaching out to flit over his hole, his balls, and then, his target, and fist his dick. Stiles arches off the rim and catches Peter in another kiss. Peter entertains him with his tongue for another breathless minute, maybe five minutes, before he pulls away for undress, which Stiles is fully on board with.

God, this is so unsanitary. A part of Stiles is busy wondering how many people have been occupying this toilet all day before Peter pushed his bare ass onto the rim while the other part is much too focused on the way Peter's pulling off his shirt.

"I'm not gonna make it to class on time," Stiles mumbles breathlessly, pulling at Peter's belt loops as he spreads the V of his legs to accommodate his hips. This is a terrible idea, from the way his math teacher is going to chew him out for showing up twenty minutes late with swollen lips to the way he's squatting naked on top of a school toilet about to offer his ass up for Peter Hale to ravage during passing period. Passing period is over, nobody but the latecomers rushing through the halls at this point, and still Stiles can't muster up a single fuck about arriving to class to take notes in time.

"Who cares," Peter growls in return, shirt dropped on the floor and the hungry stare of a famished man finding his first creek of running water for miles etched over his face. He never tries to hide it around Stiles, how thirsty he is for his mouth and his hands and his whimpers of submission, leaves it all out on the open for Stiles to revel in when he sees what he does to Peter.

Peter pushes his legs apart further, settling between his thighs and letting his fingers roam as soft ghostly touches flitting over the underside of his knees and the inner muscles of his thighs. His touches are simultaneously deliberate and teasing, just enough for Stiles to glare and fist at the hair on the nape of Peter's neck. He leans in to kiss Peter's parted mouth, wet from his tongue and begging to be bitten with a no-nonsense set of teeth, but Peter leans back and prevents him from claiming his prize.

"On your knees," he whispers with a grin so smug Stiles is tempted to roll his eyes into the heavens, but Peter arching closer to rub their lips together distracts him sufficiently. A hot tongue darts out to slide over his lower lip as encouragement, and Stiles does as he's asked and slips off the toilet.

The ground's hard, and probably just as filthy if not more so than the toilet rim, and Stiles would be protesting right now if it wasn't for the soft, wordless motivation urging him to continue in the form of Peter's fingers stroking his cheeks as he takes Stiles' former seat on the toilet. This shouldn't be sexy, none of it should be, but then there's Peter amid the lewd graffiti littered up the green stall walls without his shirt or his shame, and Stiles wants more than anything to rid him of the rest of his clothing too.

"C'mon," Peter murmurs, tipping up his chin in his fingers. His grip tightens, an almost imperceptible display of dominance as Peter squeezes his jaw in his thumb and his forefinger, and Stiles obediently scoots closer to Peter's spread legs. "If you wanna be fucked before algebra, you have to earn it."

"FYI, it's the other way around," Stiles says, but he tells him so while unbuttoning Peter's pants and draping his belt over the toilet paper roll. "You have to earn being able to fuck me."

"You didn't have this confidence when we first started sleeping together," Peter mentions, and he sounds oddly impressed as he lifts his hips for Stiles to shimmy his jeans down to his ankles. "I like it."

"You like anything that includes me naked."

"I prefer us naked together, actually," Peter murmurs with a smile. Stiles doesn't mind the smugness, the way his entire face is painted with the satisfaction of a man promised a blow job, mostly because all it takes is a few well-placed licks and a hollowing of his cheeks around Peter's dick for the smirk to disappear and be replaced with something raw and needy.

Peter is demanding before he unravels, and Stiles lets him be if only to see the final result, the way sweat dots over his temples and his chest turns flushed with gentle heaves, the way he breathes and keens into the air as unspoken praises. Stiles would probably give head for the rest of his life just to watch Peter at his most vulnerable and intrinsically know that he's to thank for reducing the monster to a writhing mess begging to come. Stiles doesn't have excess in the power department, doesn't have claws or Alpha status, but damn if he doesn't feel powerful turning Peter Hale into something less than a beta, less than a werewolf, just a human with the same needs and weaknesses that lust brings out in everybody. It's invigorating to the point where not even an aching jaw or an abused throat can convince him to retreat from Peter's spit-slicked erection.

"Well?" Stiles says inches away from Peter's freed cock, Peter's eyes fastidiously watching him lick his lips. "Aren't you going to say please?"

Peter growls, and Stiles _loves _pushing his buttons like this, right up until he snaps and takes what he wants in his own hands. Stiles loves both, both the dominant creature and the submissive human underneath, loves pulling them both out to play when he's in the mood. Peter responds exactly as anticipated, with a rough grab to Stiles' growing hair and a pull toward his cock, but Stiles remains closed-lipped until he hears the magic words.

"Please put your mouth to better use," Peter grits out, thumb rubbing reverently over Stiles' plump lower lip, abused from his aggressive kisses. "Please suck my cock so I don't fuck you hard and dry."

Not the nicest manners, but Stiles can live with a little relapses in his decorum. He gives in, both to his mouth's desire to get the taste of Peter back on his tongue and Peter's pleas and encouragements, and fastens his mouth around the head of Peter's dick.

Peter goes pliant instantly in his grip, legs falling slack and tension emptying from his limbs at the first touch of tongue. It's amazing how much tension stores in his body and how easy it is for Stiles' lips to pull it all away, so much that Stiles feels personally responsible for the fact that the town has remained pleasantly massacre free the last few months as far as it comes to damage inflicted by Peter's assets. He lets out a soft groan, one that sounds like a low _yesssss _like Stiles' mouth is the Holy Grail he's searched all his life for.

And Stiles doesn't fail to deliver. Blow jobs are his forte, what with his oral fixation and Google's help providing sex tips. Like_ breathe through your nose_, which Stiles does through his concentration, and _keep your hands busy_, which he does as well with firm kneads to Peter's thighs. His tongue works in unison with his fingers, slow, purposeful sucks and licks that speed up in tempo and build up to the orgasm that Stiles wants to see bubble up from Peter's mouth in moans and pleas. He gets off on this too much to be normal, the way he can watch Peter from between his legs with a mouthful of his dick on his tongue, Peter's face endlessly expressive when Stiles gets going.

He knows how to get Peter groaning, what spots bring out the tiniest of whimpers and what his tongue has to do to pull out the loudest of groans as well. Stiles drags his tongue up the underside of Peter's cock, slowly and carefully, and Peter fists his hair and pushes his dick further into his mouth without asking nicely. Stiles isn't surprised, more than used to the aroused manhandling that comes with trying to suck Peter Hale's dick, and complies, sliding his length further into his mouth and stroking the base with his hands.

"God," Peter is murmuring to the ceiling before reaching down to thumb the hollow of Stiles' cheeks. "Your _mouth_."

Stiles resists the urge to grin like a shark around Peter's dick, instead sucking around the head even harder than before and listening to the sound of Peter's keening tingle down his middle to rest in his groin. Here he is, buck naked on his throbbing knees on the hard floor of a high school bathroom stall, and yes, he is officially distracted from thermoeconomics.

Peter bucks forward, impatient and needy as always, and Stiles lets him slide down his throat. He knows it'll wreck his voice and that he won't be able to answer any questions during sixth hour without sounding like he just wandered out of intensive dental surgery, but it's worth it if only to hear the soft, breathy sounds of quick, needy exhales push from Peter's lungs. He guides Stiles' head back and forth on his erection, swift pulls and pushes, fingers sliding over Stiles' mouth stretched over his dick in silent awe at his willingness to submit so beautifully.

"Do you want me to come in your mouth?" Peter asks, fingers petting down his face. Stiles pulls off his dick, pushing at his hips and wiping the wetness from the corners of his eyes. His throat feels sore and raw, just as anticipated, and Stiles lets Peter rub at his jugular to soothe the muscles there until he stands up from the floor and settles himself into Peter's lap.

"No," Stiles says, voice hoarse, and Peter's back to looking satisfied by his work after hearing the words rumble through Stiles' abused throat. "Come inside me."

"Who could resist such a request?" Peter murmurs, pulling Stiles down by his neck and licking his way into his mouth. Stiles tastes like Peter's dick, of fresh skin and salty precome, and Stiles wraps his arms around his neck while he rubs their cocks together. Peter's still slick from his mouth, providing just enough wet friction between their lengths to pull a litany of swear words from Stiles' mouth. Peter chuckles. "And you say I have the dirty mouth?"

Stiles doesn't bother dignifying that with a response, instead occupying himself with rocking back and forth on Peter's lap, cocks rubbing together with every slide of his hips, and Peter grips his waist to stop him. His eyes are blue, an electric shade that Stiles knows to mean he's getting fired up just to the point where Stiles likes him best, and his blunt nails press into Stiles' side to keep him still.

"Are you just going to stare at me?" Stiles grumbles. "Or are you going to fuck me before sixth hour is over too?"

"Not like this," Peter says. "Get up."

"Starting to notice how unhygienic sex on a toilet is?" Stiles is muttering, only to be slammed against the stall door and effectively ravished into silence a moment later.

One of these days, Stiles thinks, he's going to pay back the favor that Peter keeps giving him, the one of arousing him in the most random, public, and humiliating places and reveling in Stiles' inability to resist. He'll start fondling Peter under restaurant tables and start calling him for phone sex when he knows he's at Derek's place, make him pay for giving Stiles a hard-on in the middle of economics.

He'll have to work out the kinks in his plans later, though, because Peter's started biting up his neck, deep, painful sinking of his teeth into flesh that's sure to leave marks for everybody to see, and Stiles feels his entire body sizzle like electricity is coursing through his bloodstream at Peter's possessive streak. His tongue is insistent and soft after his teeth lay the groundwork, licking over the stinging teeth marks to mollify the pain. Stiles doesn't miss a beat, hooking his leg over Peter's ass and giving as good as he gets. His marks don't last, they never do, but it doesn't deter Stiles from biting down just as hard at the tender tendons of Peter's neck, memorizing the way nanosecond-long shivers wrack Peter's bones when Stiles grazes his teeth up his shoulder.

"Spread your legs," Peter is murmuring hotly onto Stiles' mouth, breath warm and wet over Stiles' lips as Stiles does as he's told and Peter's fingers roam down the curves and dips of his back, detouring at Stiles' ass to knead and stroke the soft flesh there. "Grab the walls."

"Ugh, this is _gross_," Stiles says, but does so anyway, gripping onto the top of the stall walls, vandalized with graffiti that does little to hold Stiles' attention. Peter grins and slips his hand past Stiles' ass to his hole, thumb rubbing over his furled entrance.

"It'll be worth it," Peter growls, his voice no longer restrained and held in by the same control that keeps him from plowing into Stiles senselessly, his tone low and eager as he slips a finger into Stiles' hole. It's wet like Peter's moistened his fingers with his mouth—when that happened, Stiles isn't even aware—and Stiles feels his entire back arch forward and his fingers grip the top of the stall as Peter slides his single finger in and out.

His fingers are the opposite of Stiles', not nearly as long and slender, instead just wide enough to stretch Stiles open and crook toward his prostate before pulling back, teasing endlessly as he slides in another and listens to Stiles groan at the intrusion. It's not like it used to be, like the first time Stiles fingered himself and could feel nothing but _strange_, the way his fingers pierced his body feeling foreign and alien, and now it's enough to make him writhe and beg for more. Peter's cock inside him is like fitting a final puzzle piece into place, like filling him to the brim and completing the emptiness in his body, the kind of feeling that turns addictive after one or two instances of dirty sex, and his fingers are all just a teasing precursor to his goal.

"Hurry up," Stiles groans, twisting his body to push down on Peter's fingers. Peter only slips in a third, intent on drawing out what is surely watching Stiles' sanity dwindle further and further away, and Stiles feels the air in his lungs get thick and his chest start to heave with the stimulation.

"You have no idea how much I'd do to you if I had the time," Peter's saying on his ear, claws suddenly dragging down his body and ghosting up and down his thigh. It's light enough to tickle up until Peter adds just enough pressure for light red lines to appear down Stiles' torso. "I'd fuck you with my fingers until you'd be crying for more. I'd make you bend over and I'd lick around my knuckles, just watching the way you take my fingers slowly, and then fast, and then hard enough to make you scream. I'd do it for hours, just to watch you beg for more."

Stiles whimpers, because Peter always knows what to say and how to say it, as soft hisses that curl into his ear and settle in his brain for his mind to process until every drop of blood in his body joins the cause in his groin and makes him hard enough to hurt. He bucks his hips, not sure if he's begging for his cock to be touched or pushing back against Peter's rhythmic fingers, but he needs more, needs enough to push him over the edge that he's been teetering so dangerously close to for too long.

"_Tease_," Stiles groans, eyes fluttering closed as Peter brushes just a soft, feather-like touch against his prostate. It feels amazing and not enough, and Peter turns his face to his with firm fingers on his jaw until he opens his eyes again.

"Tell me what you want," Peter demands. His eyes are blue again, and his claws are still dragging up and down Stiles' sides to linger at his thighs and dig in where the flesh is soft and vulnerable. Stiles cries out and does the only thing that makes sense to him—play the game just as hard as Peter is. He reaches out to find Peter's dick, hard and leaking, and squeezes.

"You first," Stiles says with a grin, stroking Peter's dick with just enough of a grip to have him wrapped around his finger, and Peter glares like he knows perfectly well how much power Stiles is holding in his hands right now.

"I want," Peter growls, and shoves his fingers harder into Stiles, deeper, until he cries out and his grip falters, "to fuck you until you forget that you're even in a school bathroom."

"Then _do it_," Stiles smirks. He knows what he looks like, the same_ come and get me_ look that Peter can't resist and never could, and Peter shoves him up against the rickety stall door and pulls his fingers free, hiking Stiles' leg up over his hip and positioning himself. Peter can't resist a challenge, not if it's of his own creation or if it's Stiles' expression urging him to prove himself, and he keeps his eyes locked on Stiles' as he pushes up into him.

Stiles tips his head back against the door, feels the lock rattle and protest behind his back, and grips the stall door with one hand while the other tangles itself into Peter's hair to find purchase on something solid. There it is again, that same feeling of _full_, the way Peter pushes in to the hilt and never breaks eye contact, breath hot on Stiles' cheek from his parted lips and hands flexing from claws to nails on his hips. He seems to be ignoring every instinct in his bones by not moving, by not fucking Stiles so hard he falls into another dimension and leaves his body permanently, and just when Stiles is about to punch him in the stomach and tell him to_ fucking move already_, Peter presses a finger to his lips and shushes him.

"What the fuck are you—"

Peter digs his claws into his side, just enough of a warning for Stiles to shut up that Stiles actually heeds it. And that's when it happens. The door swings open and the soft sounds of footsteps padding into the nearest stall ring out through the room, Stiles' body seized up with the tension of a stretched spring as he watches sneakers shuffle into the adjacent stall. A zipper unzips. A soft sigh that can only be attributed with having to endure fifteen minutes of physics falls into the air. Peter starts shifting his hips.

"Don't you fucking dare," Stiles mouths, nothing but a barely audible hiss that reaches Peter's ears anyway. He grins, like this is the opportunity he was waiting for by dropping by at Stiles' school, something so incredibly reckless that Stiles will be biting down on his knuckles while Peter fucks him just to keep R-rated moans from slipping from his mouth because somebody random and nameless who was just looking for a piss in the middle of class is not three feet away behind a plastic green partition. Stiles shakes his head vehemently just as Peter's smirk stretches from ear to ear.

Peter doesn't listen. Of course he doesn't. He grabs Stiles by the hips and slowly pulls out before slamming back in, just short of his prostate, and Stiles bites down on his tongue hard enough for him no longer to be able to chew so much as gum for at least twenty-four hours. God, this is terrible. He's never agreeing to doing anything with Peter ever again. Peter thrusts in again, harder this time, and Stiles can't even muster up enough energy to cringe at the sound of skin slapping against skin, too busy nearly crumbling the stall wall with his white-knuckled grip. Next door, the hapless kid is reaching for toilet paper. The roll spins, squeaking, and Stiles buries his face in Peter's neck and bites down at the curve of his skin there hard enough to bleed, partly to keep himself from moaning and partly to punish Peter. He tastes the metallic tang of blood in his mouth a moment later, and Peter reprimands him with another thrust. This one lands straight on his prostate, a direct hit that has Stiles groaning softly in his shoulder. His ears are beet red, because this is so damn embarrassing, and he has no idea if the person in the next stall is a random freshman or the kid who sits behind him in English or even a teacher who Stiles nods to in the hallway. The options are endless, each as horrifying as the last, because Stiles is still hard as a rock.

"Shhh," Peter hisses in Stiles' ear, biting down on the lobe as he thrusts in again. The stall door rattles with the force of it, Stiles scratching his nails down Peter's back as revenge. Damn if he's going to take this without a fight.

"I'm going to kill—_fuck_."

Stiles barely remembers to whisper, not when Peter's second hand that isn't holding him up by the hips starts pumping his neglected erection, his strokes matching the pulsing tempo of his thrusts, and the toilet next door flushes. It's loud enough that Stiles lets himself groan, low and needy, and he feels Peter grin against his neck as he speeds up his thrusts like all he wants is to hear Stiles fall apart right here, right now, with somebody here to hear all of it. Stiles really is going to fucking kill him. He prays to the deities above that whatever unfortunate soul who was unlucky enough to stumble into this particular bathroom at this particular time doesn't notice that there are clothes on the floor in the stall next to him, how there's a pant leg sticking out from under the door and how there's the steady sound of skin grinding together nearby. He seems helplessly oblivious, the sink running and the soap dispenser pumping. Stiles bites his lips and thinks_ how fucking long can you wash your hands _just as Peter pushes in again, harder still.

At least two minutes, is what the ultimate result turns out to be, and Stiles is nearly sobbing by the time he hears the rustling of paper towels. The sneakers sound against the floors, only a slightly squeak to the sole, and then there it is: the heavenly sound Stiles has been waiting for. The door.

"You're an asshole," Stiles is saying that moment the door swings shut, clawing frantically at Peter's chest while Peter tips his head back and _laughs_. "You're such a fucking—jesus christ—_horrible _bastard—oh, _shit_."

He can't string a sentence together anymore, not with Peter fucking into him with abandon. It isn't a battle to stay quiet and tame anymore, Peter growling against Stiles' marked chest while Stiles cries out at each thrust, each stroke of his length, each flick of his tongue against Stiles' nipple. He reaches around Peter's chest to grab at his ass, feel it flex and contract under his grip with every thrust up into Stiles' hole. He pulls out, nothing but the head of his cock teasing Stiles' rim, and has the audacity to not continue. Stiles takes the opportunity to breathe, catch in gulps of oxygen before the world turns hazy, and glare.

"What the fuck?" He growls, and Peter teases his cock head around his swollen entrance.

"Still want me to stop?"

"You asshole," Stiles is muttering, all sense of constraint and school manners gone as his cock practically holds him at gunpoint for attention. His arm's getting weak from where he's gripping on tight to the stall wall, sweaty under his grasp, and he's in no mood for jokes. "You are getting nothing but coal for Christmas and I'm going to piss in your garden. I swear to god, if you don't fuck me within the next—_oh_."

Apparently, Peter doesn't have the patience for playing nice anymore either, because for once he actually _listens _to Stiles and gives him what he wants. He pushes back in, thumbs swiping over Stiles' cheek as his mouth falls open with moans, leaning in to bite a mark into his jaw. Stiles can already tell from the teeth grazing his chin that it's going to be a mottled purple, maybe even a speckled green, the kind of mark that screams_ I got fucked by my boyfriend in the hallway while all of you were learning about logarithms_. For whatever reason, it feels good. Thrilling.

"_Yes_," Stiles mumbles as Peter speeds up, pushing in faster, harder, whispering unintelligible words in his ears that turn him on even without having to decipher what he's saying. It's hot on his ear and he lets go of the wall to grab desperately onto Peter's shoulders and dig his fingertips in. Peter hoists him up against the wall, more than capable of holding him up without Stiles' additional help, and Stiles clutches onto him as he fucks him in earnest.

"Gonna come inside you," Peter growls. Stiles listens to the way his words rumble off his throat and fall straight onto his eardrum, another moan falling from his mouth as Peter squeezes his dick in warning. "Just like you want."

"Yes, yes, _yeah_," Stiles is saying, nearly incoherent with the way Peter's cock repeatedly brushes against his prostate. He feels like blacking out, like saying goodbye to the world for at least four hours just so he can pass out on this grimy floor with Peter on top of him, who cares who finds him or how many classes he'll be skipping, all his mind can actively focus on right now is the feeling of Peter's hand on his length and his dick in his ass. Not even an entire horde of boys wandering into the bathroom could silence him now, not with how close he is, and Peter seems to pick up on how near to the edge he is as he pounds into him that much harder.

Stiles comes first, with his entire body drawn up as if tied together with strings that only let loose of their knots when he spills over Peter's hand, every single lump of tension free from his limbs as he reaches his climax. He feels the world tingle in and out for a moment, nothing but a few dappled spots of black and blur, and then Peter pushing back into his lax hole wakes him back up into reality once more. He blinks the fuzz from his eyes and tangles his hand into the hair by Peter's ear, clinging onto his shoulder.

"C'mon," he mumbles, brushing the sweat away from Peter's forehead while his ears get to work memorizing the sound of his breathless pants pushed from his lungs. "Come in me. Fill me up."

It always works. His voice, rough and broken, murmuring encouragements into Peter's ear works like a charm in pulling him past the point of no return. Stiles' eyelids are heavy like they always are after Peter gives sex his all, but he keeps them open if only to see Peter's face suspended in frozen pleasure, mouth twisted into a perfect o and neck damp with sweat. He feels him spill into his ass a moment later, hot and fulfilling like sex should be, and Stiles idly wonders how long it'll take before the smell of sex dissipates from the bathroom.

"God," Stiles says, the first to speak, as Peter slides him back to his feet and to earth. His legs feel wobbly, unused and liquefied, and Peter keeps a steady hand around his waist as he gathers his bearings. He grabs his pants off the floor and rummages inside the pocket for his phone, checking the time. "Wow. Only half an hour late to class."

"We could always make it longer," Peter says, dragging open-mouthed kisses up his neck, and Stiles is personally proud of his self-control for being able to bodily push him aside and throw his shirt on.

"You're an old man," Stiles says instantly, grinning. "Your recovery time is probably at least forty-eight hours."

"You'd be amazed," Peter says, pulling him back into his chest and reaching around his ass to dot at his sore entrance with wads of toilet paper. Stiles jumps at the unexpected touches as Peter wipes his come away and rubs his thumb into the sore, freshly-made marks littered up and down his neck. Stiles jabs his finger into the one on his chin he remembers Peter creating, frowning when the pain is instant.

"I don't have any turtlenecks, and I have to go to class looking like I ran into a hungry lion in the hallway."

"Stop griping," Peter says, squeezing Stiles' ass. "You got to have sex while your classmates got assigned homework."

It actually wasn't a bad deal at all, Stiles thinks, as he wrestles his pants over his legs and tries to stay awake. He likes naps after sex, likes warm showers or falling asleep in the back of his Jeep buck naked for an unsuspecting police officer to find, not trailing down the hallway into math class when he still has the telltale post-coital limp and disheveled hobo hair. He tries valiantly to smooth it down while Peter hands him his jacket.

"Next time," Stiles says as he pushes the stall door open and tries his hardest to avoid the mirror. It's better if he doesn't know how many hickeys he's managed to acquire in under an hour if he can't hide them anyway. "I grope you at the grocery store. And it won't be as funny to you when somebody wanders into the same aisle."

"Next time will be tomorrow at lunch," Peter says with a wink that Stiles doesn't trust. "You're gonna need a distraction after that English test, won't you?"

Stiles thinks about it as he zips up his jacket to his chin and pushes the door open, Peter's arm looping around his hips. There's not a single soul in the hallway except for one of the rebellious kids who got kicked out twenty minutes in for being disruptive and is now chilling next to the vending machine with no intention of returning, and Stiles is glad he doesn't have to walk a safe distance away from him if only to keep up appearances that no, he doesn't know the middle-aged man trying to squeeze his ass while everybody stares unabashedly.

"Fine," Stiles says. "Noon sharp or I'm back to the cafeteria for snacks."

"Fair enough."

Tomorrow, he'll remember to bring a turtleneck.


End file.
